


Stricken

by Zinnith



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Community: sherlockkink, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-15
Updated: 2010-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:17:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zinnith/pseuds/Zinnith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes is hurt in a street brawl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stricken

**Author's Note:**

> For sherlockkink and the prompt: _Holmes is badly hurt in an attack,(...) is too out of it to understand who has him when Watson gets to him,and tries to fight Watson off half-conscious._

I did not see when he was stricken, because I was occupied grappling with the second of the two men who had apprehended us in the dark street. By the time I had subdued the mugger, Holmes had already overmanned his own opponent and left him in a groaning heap upon the ground. It was clear to me that my friend had taken a blow, but it did not worry me at first. I had often tended to him after fights and boxing matches and he usually bore his injuries with little complaint. There was blood running from his hairline and I could see a rapidly forming bruise there as well, but he was alert and cognizant, quipping about our attackers' poor brawling skills.

However, as we made our way back to our rooms at Baker Street, I began to notice that he was talking less and concentrating more and more on just putting one foot in front of the other. When we reached our front door, he was all but leaning on my arm and he had gone very pale and quiet.

It was late and I did not wish to wake our esteemed landlady, who already tolerated so much from us, so I tried to tread lightly as I supported my friend up the stairs and into our sitting room where I left him on the settee while I went to find my medical kit. Holmes had not said a word for quite some time, something I found quite uncharacteristic, and I was beginning to suspect that he had taken a more serious blow than I had first thought.

When I returned to the room, I found that he had not moved from where I'd put him. He sat slightly slumped over, his eyes hazy and unfocused, staring at nothing.

I put my bag down beside him on the settee and reached for his bloodied brow. "Come here, let me have a look at you, old boy," I said, gently touching my fingers to his head and the injury there.

It was then a strange darkness came upon his face, and he took my wrist in a bruising grip, hard enough that for a moment I was afraid he might break the delicate bones there. "Don't touch me!" he cried and pushed me away. Even hurt as he was, he still possessed every ounce of his usual wiry strength, and I found myself stumbling backwards several steps.

Holmes got to his feet, swaying like a drunk, and backed away from me. There was no sign of recognition in his eyes, as if he was seeing a threatening stranger instead of a well-known friend. I did fear for him then, for while I had known him to lose track of the time and the day and sometimes even the month during the times of inactivity that tormented him so, I had never before seen him in such a state that he did not know me.

Holmes sank down onto the floor, leaned his back against the wall, and buried his head in his hands. I knelt down before him, but kept my distance so as not to provoke another fit of violence. My old wound pained me as I did so, but I paid no attention to it. All my thoughts were turned to him. In my profession as a doctor, I had seen patients suffering from head wounds lose their minds, never to recover. The thought of my brilliant friend suffering such a fate made me feel ill.

"Holmes," I said, after some time had passed and he had not made any attempt to move from the spot. "Holmes, do you know me?"

He looked up and blinked at me several times, and then it was like the fog lifted from his eyes and he gave me a tired half-smile. "Of course," he answered. "How could I not? My dear Watson, I am so sorry..." he trailed off and screwed his eyes shut, clutching his forehead with trembling fingers.

"Holmes?" I asked, afraid that he had once again succumbed to delirium.

"I have a terrible headache," he murmured. "And I think I would like to rest now."

"So you shall," I agreed and reached out to help him up, satisfied to find that he no longer flinched away from my touch.

I helped him to his room and out of his clothes, and gave him something to ease the pain in his head before I cleaned the wound and bandaged it. He fell into an uneasy sleep, and I remained by his bedside, preparing to spend the night waking him up every couple of hours to check his mental faculties.

There were already marks forming around my wrist, left there by his fingers, and I knew I would bear the bruise for quite some time before it faded completely, but it was of no consequence to me, not as long as I knew Holmes would recover.

And of that I was sure, after I shook him awake for the third time, early in the morning, to be met by a pillow thrown at my face and the irritable shout of, "For heaven's sake, Watson, go away and let me sleep in peace!"

I went to search out my own bed then, confident in the knowledge that my friend was still with me, and would be for a long time to come.

\- fin -


End file.
